


Best on Bill

by Lil-Ol-Cricket-Bug (LoxleyAndBagell)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Charade au, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Short Grantaire, tall enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoxleyAndBagell/pseuds/Lil-Ol-Cricket-Bug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Literally the ending scene of "Charade" with these two dorks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best on Bill

**Author's Note:**

> The movie "Charade" in its entirety is available on Hulu and imdb, if you want to watch Audrey Hepburn chase a befuddled, older Cary Grant around Paris while dealing with possible murder charges, American gangsters, and quite a bit of stolen money. 
> 
> Originally posted on my tumblr, http://lilolcricketbug.tumblr.com/post/122586234013/300th-post-fic

There, behind Monsieur Grantaire’s desk, sat Diomus-Gregoire-Antoine.

 

He certainly didn’t look like he belonged back there, in the suit Enjolras knew to be still half-damp, hazel eyes twinkling, smiling brightly at Enjolras, his square, cleft chin resting on his folded hands. It was impossible to see, but Enjolras could very clearly envision the man’s feet kicking under massive, mahogany desk.

 

The thought of Antoine and a mahogany desk was impossible to reconcile.

 

The situation went from inconceivable to ridiculous when An— _the man behind the desk_ crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue at Enjolras.

 

Finding his resolve at last, Enjolras shut the door behind himself before tearing this ridiculous man a new one.

 

“Of all the dirty, lousy, _rotten,”_ he tried to scold. He was cut off by the bright burble of laughter from… well, _whatever_ this absurd, wonderful, brave man was calling himself today.

 

“Who are you today?” he asked in his sternest voice, hands on his hips and looking down at him.

 

The man stood up, and walked around to stand in front of the desk, rather than lean over to take Enjolras’ hand, puffing out his chest as he tilted his head up to meet Enjolras’ gaze before cheekily declaring, “Monsieur Grantaire, head of the French Embassy Treasury Department. I understand you have some government property to return, Monsieur Enjolras?”

 

Enjolras refused to be cowed, inclining his head to bring his face (wearing its most disapproving expression) even closer to… this “Francois Grantaire.”

 

“You couldn’t even be honest about being dishonest. Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

 _Grantaire_ had the good grace to look a little shamefaced. “We’re not allowed to tell.”

 

Enjolras crowded him a little more, enjoying the sheepish reaction he got. “How did Claquesous get in here, in the first place?”

 

“Well, what time of day did you see him?”

 

“Around one o’clock.”

 

“Lunch hour. I’ll bet you anything he found an office that was usually open during that time and moved in for the time you were here.”

 

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at him, then wrapped his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist and slowly raised it. He only dropped his gaze to roll up the sleeve and peer at the face of his watch.

 

“Careful with that,” said Grantaire softly. “That’s—“

 

“Waterproof,” murmured Enjolras, taking in the time, trying not to smile. “I remember. You proved your point very aptly.”

 

Grantaire cleared his throat gingerly; “I wouldn’t sabotage my own lunch hour.”

 

Enjolras liked him like this, wide-eyed and looking up, squirming a little, especially after he’d been stringing Enjolras about this foolish city all this time, dropping and picking up names like skipping stones, wearing the same awful suit for every dinner and brawl and that _shower—_

 

“How do I know this is _your_ office?” he asked, keeping his voice low, remembering how Grantaire (who had been Gregoire at the time) had complained about it.

 

There was something marvelous about the way Grantaire couldn’t look away from Enjolras, couldn’t stand to move to look at where his hand was going as he floundered for the phone on his desk, the receiver clattering on its way to his ear.

 

“Bahorel,” he said, voice dry, “would you please send a memo to Laigle at Security recommending that—“

 

Startled, Enjolras wrinkled his nose, mouthing _“Laigle?”_

The middle of Grantaire’s sentence got cut off by a surprised snort, and he hastily tried to cover the sound by clearing his throat. “Sorry. Recommending that all Embassy offices be locked during lunch hour? Thank you.”

 

He hung up as Enjolras bitterly added, “starting with his own.”

 

Grantaire had the presence of mind to turn his head to watch where he put the receiver down, still smiling, open and childish.

 

Enjolras suspected Grantaire was taking the opportunity to try and school his face into something sterner, and he used his superior height shamelessly, crowding and looming to keep an eye on Grantaire’s face as it struggled and twisted.

 

“Now, Monsieur Enjolras, those stamps?” Grantaire prompted, pretending to be fishing for a particular pen.

 

“Francois Grantaire.” Enjolras tested the feel and weight of it on his tongue. He had the distinct impression that it suited this odd little man. “Is that who you are today?”

 

That made Grantaire look at him. There was a somber darkness in his eyes as he vowed, “Today, and every day from here on out.”

 

Enjolras’ immediate instinct was to backpedal, to make some jibe about how it would serve him right to get stuck with _this_ one, but instead what came out was the old familiar, “Is there a Madame--?”

 

“Yes,” Grantaire interrupted him, intently. “There is a Madame. And no ‘Monsieur’ besides me.”

 

That was different.

 

At a loss and feeling distinctly hollow, all Enjolras could manage was a crestfallen, “Oh.”

 

He began to back out of Grantaire’s space, releasing his wrist, but the other man’s hand came up to lightly touch his waist, stopping him as his newly-freed hand dug about in his pocket, retrieving his wallet.

 

“My mother,” he explained, fumbling with the wallet one-handed. “She raised me, she’d like you, she lives in—“

 

Enjolras could feel his smile growing to manic proportions, his hand coming to cover Grantaire’s on his waist, encouraging a firmer touch. Grantaire cut himself off at the touch of Enjolras’ hand, eyes darting from there to Enjolras’ face.

 

The same wide-eyed-and-squirmy look came over Grantaire again, and he blushed deliciously, stammering, “the stamps?”

 

“Identification first,” Enjolras asserted, unable to keep the giddy laugh from his attempted sharp tone. “Give me some definite proof that you’re Francois Grantaire.”

 

“How about some time next week I put it on a marriage license?”

 

“Quit stalling.”

 

Grantaire’s blush was even more glorious up-close, when the warmth reflected onto Enjolras’ cheek. “I wouldn’t _lie_ about something like _that,”_ he insisted.

 

Enjolras nuzzled his smile into Grantaire’s bearded cheek. “You’d lie about anything.”

 

“We can forget about it,” Grantaire offered, voice tiny.

 

“You’re not getting out _that_ easily,” Enjolras said, victoriously. “You either prove it, or you get no—“

 

Enjolras hastily pulled back. “I’m sorry, did you say _marriage?”_

 

Grantaire looked ready to fall over. “I didn’t say anything.”

 

“You _did.”_ Enjolras crowded Grantaire again, lifting him by the hips to sit him down on his own desk to be on a better level with him because Grantaire was a ninny with no sense of self-preservation and an overdeveloped sense of the ironic and had the very very best ideas. “I _heard_ you.”

 

Grantaire looked hopelessly lost. “Stamps?” he squeaked.

 

Enjolras gave up and laughed, louder than was probably polite, and buried his face in Grantaire’s shoulder, hugging him close and practically purring when he felt those arms drape around him.

 

“I _love_ you,” he laughed. “I’m so in love with you, Diomus-Gregoire-Antoine-Francois, whatever the hell your name is. Fucking hell, I _love_ you _so much.”_

 

Grantaire melted in his arms, whimpering as Enjolras nipped at his neck. “We’re going to adopt lots of cats,” Enjolras giggled between kisses, “and we’re naming them all after you.”

 

“That’s. I second the motion, and reciprocate the, the, yeah,” Grantaire managed, breathy and punch-drunk.

 

Enjolras had to lift his head to kiss him for that, but paused at the feeling of Grantaire’s fingers on his lips, halting him.

 

Flushed and wrecked, Grantaire swallowed before asking in a hoarse but firm tone, “But before we start on that, Monsieur Enjolras, may I have those stamps, please?”

 


End file.
